Reversal
by Rahndom
Summary: Damian Al Ghul is adopted by the Wayne family, while Tim Drake accompanies him in his quest for justice. Damian as Batman and Tim as his companion, and then the others as their robin/children. Slash D/T
1. Reversal

**Snow**

Damian huffs, eyes narrowed and swollen almost shut as he wanders the darkened streets of Gotham. The winter air biting into his damaged side and turning his blood into dark red sharpnels pulling and cutting at his skin, making each and every step an agonizing process.

It didn't matter, however, the pain, the hunger, the way his bare feet were slowly losing color. He is free of his mother's stone-cold eyes and his grandfather's lawless expectations. He will decide his own fate, live his own life, de his own death without fearing The League will come to bath him in the Lazarus.

Even the thought of dying a frozen corpse in this foreign city is a glorious prospect while compared to the path laid out for him by his family.

He grins as he lets himself fall face-first into the snowy pathway of a house, letting the cold soak him into near unconsciousness.

Suddenly, there are warm fingers preventing his numbness, trailing over his hair, his cheekbones, around his left ear and finally resting over his neck, feeling his pulse.

"You are not dead," a soft voice whispers in mild surprise. "Mrs. Mac! Call an ambulance, please!"

Damian opens one eye to stare at the teen carefully pressing an expensive looking cashmere sweater into his wounded side.

"I'm Tim," the teen whispers. "Don't close your eyes, please. Talk to me. What's your name?"

"I… Damian…" he struggles to reply, hissing in half pain, half pleasure when Tim's hands touch his forehead.

Hours later, as he lays in a hospital bed and stares into the teen's pale blue eyes, he can't help but compare his expectations with his new reality. He was saved by a civilian. A bright eyed boy who is smiling at him as he tells Captain Gordon how the he, poor thing, was babbling about a car accident while Tim looked after him and that it must have been the collision in 4th street and Main.

When he asks Tim why he has come up with such deceit, the other teen explains how he has heard of a car accident between a car and a truck filled to the brim with illegal immigrants.

"I guessed you didn't want people finding out your origins while you were unconscious," Tim explains, tracing the League's tattoo on Damian's foot. "An accident survivor is easily dismissed, plus it makes Black Mask's human trade front page and therefore, no one would have the heart to force you back to your own country without facing public outrage."

At this, the teen smiles a barely-there-smile that makes something in Damian's frozen body warm up.

"That is brilliant," he whispers.

"You are welcome."

They stop their conversation the moment the hospital's main benefactor, Mr. Thomas Wayne enters the room, informing Damian grimly that he is the only survivor of the group of immigrants and if he would like to come live with him and his wife Martha at Wayne Manor. Mr. Wayne is a good man, Tim will explain later, a man of honor that has never been blessed with children of his own.

"Will you be close?" he asks Tim, hesitant.

He nods.

"Then, thank you, Mr. Wayne," Damian says, his cheeks flushing lightly.

**Bus Stop.**

Tim holds Damian's hand as Mr. and Mrs. Wayne are lowered to the ground, both dressed impeccably in black. Mr. Pennyworth, the Waynes' butler is resting a hand on Damian's shoulder as tears slide silently down the boy's cheeks.

Reporters are not allowed at the funeral, but they are all waiting for them outside of the chapel, ready to snap a picture of the new Wayne millionaire.

They all heard the story.

How Mr. Wayne wanted to celebrate the second anniversary of the adoption of his new son and had dragged the whole family to watch a movie at the theater, Damian's favorite, only to find themselves victims to a crazed robber and gunned instantly. Headlines have been written already:

**'CHILD SURVIVOR OF THE 4TH AND MAIN TRAGEDY AN ORPHAN AGAIN.'**

**'THE IRANI CURSE STRIKES WAYNE AND HIS WIFE, CHILD SURVIVOR INHERITS FORTUNE.'**

**'THE BOY SURVIVOR'**

Damian wants to kill them all, just like he wants to follow the man that stole his new-found family from him and rip his head from his shoulders with his bare hands, he wants him to go to hell while he begs for mercy that will never come, for a second chance he doesn't deserve.

Tim tugs his hand gently, guides him to the other side of the chapel to sit in an abandoned bus stop.

"Talk to me," he begs, his hands wiping Damian's tears. "Please."

"I'm going to kill that man," Damian whispers, his hands clenching until his knuckles turn white and there is a faint trail of blood spilling from his palms. Tim wraps his arms around him and forces his head to rest on his slender shoulder, shaking.

"Don't, please don't."

"He killed them, he took them from me."

Never again will he hear Martha, **mother**, singing as she arranges the flowers in the dining table. Her musical laughter as she mock-hits Thomas, **father**, for his smart mouth. He won't feel her hands caressing his forehead as they lay him down to sleep, her soft kisses on his cheeks before Alfred drives him to school.

'Be good, darling,' he believes he can still hear her.

'We're proud of you, son,' Thomas' voice joins hers inside his head.

"You won't be better than him," Tim argues, his pale pink lips twisting as tears start falling from his eyes. "You won't be better than your grandfather."

"But he deserves it!" Damian protests, struggling with Tim's embrace. If he wanted to, he would easily release himself from the other teen, the other boy who has shared this wonderful second chance with him. But to do so would harm him, he could break Tim's arm if he is not careful, therefore he doesn't move as much as he could. He pretends to fight something he cannot.

"But you don't deserve to darken your soul anymore," Tim whispers, sobs, cries, there is a roar echoing in Damian's ears that make Tim's voice harder to hear. "Thomas and Martha would be sad to see you take that road."

The roaring stops, the struggling stops.

The world itself stops.

"I want justice," he whispers, his arms coming around Tim's back. "I want justice."

"Then we'll get justice," Tim sooths. "I swear I'll help you until justice has been served."

Mr. Pennyworth appears besides them, eyes dull with sorrow, and wraps them both in a tight embrace.

"Let's go back home, Master Damian," he says, his usually stoic voice cracking.

Damian understands Alfred has lost his family as well, and that he is the only one remaining to him as well.

"Please, Alfred," he whispers. "Let's."

**Band**

Damian parks the car in the band and ignores the he is slowly turning towards the entrance, ready for another outing in Gotham's night. There is no reason for celebration tonight as he remembers the madman he has helped to create, the deformed man laughing like a maniac and claiming he has given him a new chance.

He shakes his head, turning when Alfred places a steaming mug of tea in his hand without uttering a word. Old, reliable Alfred, always there to make sure he doesn't fall apart.

"Master Timothy is waiting for you in the computer room, Master Damian," he says gently, his wrinkling hands removing the cowl from Damian's face.

He smiles a little at his grandfather figure, nodding.

"Did you call him, Pennyworth?" he asks, sipping the tea and feeling it warm his throat.

"I did not, Master Damian," the old man shakes his head. "He appeared out of thin air in front of the computer two hours ago."

"It's a cold night outside," Damian mutters, taking off his gauntlets.

"I have already procured Master Timothy's usual blanket and soup, of course," the Englishman says, nodding.

"He bullied me until I drank it all, actually," Tim chirps from the doorway, still wrapped around the woolen blanket Damian had exported from the Andes just for him.

"Excellent job, then, Pennyworth," Damian smiles lightly, nodding when Alfred pats his shoulder before bowing.

"Always a pleasure."

"Bullies, the two of you," Tim sighs, wrapping his blanketed arms around Damian's waist.

Damian responds in kind, wrapping his larger arms around Tim's shoulders.

"I'm here," Tim whispers.

"I know," Damian replies, letting the weariness of the night, the cackling laughter of his new rouge, the stench of chemicals, fall away from his shoulders as he sinks his nose on Tim's neck. "Stay tonight?"

Tim kisses his hair.

"Always."

**Railway**.

Batman finds Tim sitting on one of Gotham's many abandoned train stations, his globed hands tight around his arms and his hair wet by the rain.

"Did you catch him?" he asks, as he wraps his arm and his cape around Tim's trembling back.

Tim shakes his head.

"Boomerang will be back for sure," Damian whispers, pulling the smaller man into his arms. "Your father will be avenged, Timothy. I swear this to you."

"I want to be the one to do it, Batman," Tim whispers hoarsely, his teeth clenched so tight they turn Tim's lips an even paler shade of pink. "I want to be the one to put him down like the dog he is. That he knows for certain it was me who sent him to jail to rot."

"As a civilian?"

"As an avenger," Tim whispers. "I need to go, I need to train."

"I can train you," Damian offers but Tim shakes his head. "Timothy."

"Damian," Tim says, and his ale eyes are devoid of any emotion. "You have a duty here, I would only hinder you."

"You said you would always stay with me."

"And that promise alone will make me come back, always."

Damian has no heart to stop Tim as he starts walking under the rain over the rusty railroads. He doesn't call out to him or say another word. Tim will come back, he swore.

But loneliness is something Batman, for all his pose and growls, cannot bear.

When two years later the dark figure of Nemesis makes its name known among the Gotham scum, Damian can't help but smile and watch as the slender man lands in front of him, all black and red and glorious in his form.

"Took you a long time to come back," he says, arms crossed.

"I had a terrible teacher that didn't want to let me go," Nemesis replies, his own smile sardonic as he shakes his head, black hair dancing against the wind.

"Welcome home."

The two of them walk back towards the car in comfortable silence, their fingers brushing against eachother in a ridiculous attempt to resist the urge to hold hands as they did during their youth. Damian will hold himself back, though, because his Tim is back, his anchor to the world is back and nothing will spoil the reunion he is mentally planning between the sheets of his bed, back in the Manor. He knows Alfred won't mind the mess when he sees his small Master Timothy wrapped in his blanket once more.

His plans, however, do become ruined when they find a ten year old trying to steal the tires of the batmobile with dexterous little hands and intelligent green eyes.

"I wasn't doing anything!" the boy cries, frightened as he recognizes both masked vigilantes.

Damian wants to growl but Tim is smiling, mirth shaking his shoulders.

"Of course you weren't," Nemesis says softly, offering his hand to the child.

Damian knows he will regret this, but he has missed Tim's almost silent laughter as much as he has missed the rest of him.


	2. Death in the Family

Damian is running as fast as he can, his lungs burning, his heart hammering in his chest and begging for reprieve he will not grant as the maddened laughter of his archenemy echoes in the desert.

Dick, he needs to find Dick, he needs to find him before it's too late, before…

Dick had always been their special little bird, their Robin. Hell even Jason tended to dote on the enthusiastic teen despite his mostly sour disposition towards Damian himself.

Tim would often allow their circus monkey to climb into his lap in an elaborate game of make pretend to demand 'mommy cuddles' out of the silent vigilante and fatherly pats on the head from Damian himself when he felt he had done well.

Because, yes, Dick's obsession with family had been something none of the damaged members of the Wayne household had ever felt themselves and often tended to indulge in awkwardly, pretending they did know what a loving and functioning family was supposed to act like for the child's sake.

Which was why they had flown over to the middle east when Dick had heard rumors that his uncle, his Romany raised uncle, was alive and well, convinced no other member of the flying Grayson's was there. And his happy smile when the man had embraced him, running careful hands over dark hair.

Damian had snapped a picture for Tim and Jason as soon as he saw an opportunity, but now?

Now that he knew The Joker had captured their Robin.

The happy reunion Dick had always imagined was turning into a nightmare and for all the bravado and poise…

The child must be frightened.

He cries the boy's tittle, screams his lungs hoarse as he approaches the lone warehouse under the desert sun.

He reaches with his hand, so close, so very close, and then an explosion is rocking him back, sending him flying towards the sand and everything is burning and the warehouse is laying in pieces and god, no, please god.

"Dick!" he cries as he crawls towards the fire, there is a scrap of metal sticking into his arm, his leg is twisted in an unnatural angle that forces him to drag his torso on the bloody sand, but he can't stop, not for the world when his little bird, his Richard is laying so still in the sand, his face a mask of bloody tranquility he had never achieved in life.

"Richard," Damian whispered when his trembling hands finally made contact with the small body, slowly cradling him in his arms like the child he was. "Richard…"

The desert echoes with the clown prince's maddened cackles and the dark knights howls of pain, mixing in a symphony of sorrow that will mark the years to come.

A song that will be joined by Jason's soft gasps and Timothy's stoic, blameless silences, and the way petite hands will clench and tighten before he crumbles to the ground, tears sliding slowly down his cheeks.

Timothy won't cry Dick's death, won't whisper words of regret and, most heartbreakingly, he won't blame Damian for the tragedy, for wanting to take their little Robin so far away without them to help out, his eyes are just a tad more sad, a little calmer in their despair.

Nightwing, on the other hand, is more vocal, more aggressive in his recrimination; he will stare at Dick's brightly colored costume and snarl that Damian should have done something, that Dickiebird probably spent his last minutes waiting for him, that he and Tim should have gone as well. He will storm around the cave spitting insults and all the recriminations that already echo inside Damian's head, he will shake Tim and demand he agrees with him before snapping in disgust when the older man does nothing before storming away.

Tim will sit by the computer, ignoring Jason, and sigh whenever the topic is been put forward. He is a silent doll, a dead figure in the dark of the cave, diligently working, patrolling, coping in a way that none of the other residents will understand.

At night, Damian will caress his naked shoulder and ask him why isn't he angry. Tim will grasp his hand lightly, pressing his warm and calloused fingers to his cheek.

"I am angry, more than I can possibly say, but I swore on your parents' graves that I would never kill, and that I would keep you from doing it yourself," he whispers back, closing his eyes. "And then there is this twisted part of me that whispers that a more fitting revenge is to make that clown live on and suffer accordingly, forever."

Damian sighs and wraps his arms tightly around Tim, trying to ignore the way the two of them are broken and how Dick's loss has only made them worse than before.

When one morning he wakes to cold sheets, he feels the inevitable has finally happened.

Tim has left.

The single piece of paper lying innocently in his usual pillow is the only thing keeping Damian from going insane.

**'I need to go, I'm sorry… but I'll be back. Batman always needs a Robin and I need to find myself again. – Timothy.'**

Damian keeps the note close to him at all times, tries to ignore the way Jason will glare at him hatefully whenever their paths cross, the way he goes to sleep on a cold bed every night. The way Alfred's fingers on the bat computer's keyboard are silent and careful, but not perfect. The way Richard's grave is always full of flowers in full bloom, always colorful and bright like the boy himself. The way Timothy's private room in the Manor is getting dusty but he can't force himself to ask Alfred to clean it, lest he loses the faint scent of his skin from the clothing, the bed sheets, the curtains… even that ridiculously dull cushion he liked to rest his back into.

Richard is dead, Jason is broken, Tim is gone.

Batman roams the night alone.

And dreams of better times when he had a family, when the night air rang with the soft laughter of a child.


	3. Rise of the Red Robin

Damian is laying at his side on his bed when the summons arrive, his arm is broken in two parts and there is no way for him to fight the drugs currently running through his system but he is leisurely resting for once, because Tim is running his slender fingers over his hair, humming a soft tune as he reads report after report in their bed and Damian just wants to enjoy the sweet scent of his beloved by his side, of the normalcy that surrounds them.

That is, until Jason's voice blares through the speakers, urgency clear in his tone.

"Nightwing," Damian calls, his voice slipping easily into the growl that Tim calls his 'Batman-voice'.

"B!" the young man cries, breathing ragged. "Double B is been attacked by a new dude!"

Tim opens his eyes, elbows punish his body off the bed.

Damian groans.

"Black Bat can deal with whoever might try to come to blows with her," he snapped, ignoring the way Tim's shoulders tense with pride. Cassandra is, after all, more of his child than Damian's. His student and protégé, handed over by the late Lady Shiva herself for him to protect.

"Not this time, Boss!" Jason yells, and they can hear the fight going and Tim is out of the bed at the same time he is running towards the cave, both their eyes narrowed.

"So much for a night off," Tim says, suiting up.

Damian shakes his head.

"We shall have a honey moon once the children are safe."

He should have seen it coming, of course. He should have seen it when The Joker disappeared and Cassandra was attacked. When Jason was unable to overpower their new foe. When the villain seemed able to predict Tim's every move.

But he hadn't, and it was his mistake.

And now he is standing before Red Robin, eyes wide as Dick, their little Dickie Bird, is holding a gun to The Joker's forehead, eyes narrowed and mouth curled into an ugly smirk.

"You replaced me," he spat. "You replaced me for that little girl as if I meant nothing! And then you weren't even capable of seeking revenge! You wouldn't even kill the one that took me away from you two!"

"It wasn't like that and you know it," he tries to reason, hands resting limply at his sides. "I swore I would never walk that path."

"Please," Dick hisses. "You've killed before, you were a fucking assassin before coming to Gotham. You could have killed if I was important enough!"

"Please stop this," Jason wheezes, holding his damaged side. His leg is broken in two parts, his forehead is split and bleeding profusely and his ribs are broken. Dick has really done a number to him.

"Shut up, you!" Dick snaps. "You were always the favorite anyways! The wonderful Nightwing! The eldest and most loved, you have no idea what it's like!"

"The Kid does have a point, Batsy," The Joker laughs, squirming against the tight hold Dick has of his neck. "You did replace him quite easily with that little mute of yours."

"Shut it, clown!" Dick growls, hitting him with the back of his gun in the head. "You are just means to an end!"

The madman is laughing and Damian is trying to ignore the way Jason's breathing is growing shallow by the second – his lung must be punctured – and how Dick's hand is not even shaking as he tightens his fingers on the trigger. He is really going to do it, their little ray of sunshine is really going to kill The Joker to prove a point. Damian's hand is tight against his own weapon, eyes narrowing.

His teeth sink into the inside of his cheek until he feels the metallic tang of blood against his tongue. There is a bead of sweat rolling under his cowl and down his neck, his knees feel weakened and about to collapse and he knows he can't do it.

He can't do it, not to Dick, never to him.

"Do it, old man!" Dick demands. "Do it or I will!"

"I won't."

"DO IT!"

Suddenly there is glass breaking and a Batarang is sinking into Dick's hand, making him yell and forcing him to release The Joker, sending the madman sprawling into the ground, his broken teeth spilling into the dirty wooden floors as he cackles.

"Mommy is here!"

Dick's lips curl into a snarl as he points the gun at the figure landing gracefully in front of him, dark cape enveloping slender limbs, dark hair framing the older face, the stoic set of the mouth, the eyebrows.

Tim is the perfect picture of an ice statue, unfeeling, frozen, as he stares at Red Robin's bird-like cowl hanging from the teen's neck.

"Of course," the young man mocks, spitting at the man's feet. "Of course you had to come to support your lover, right? The biggest liar of them all."

"Robin," Ti says evenly, his voice glacial.

"You were the one that swore we were family, of course," Dick continues. "Batman is just too emotionally stumped so you took over with the promises and the love and the lies! I should have known that you could never love me and the others, that with the sociopaths you held for parents-"

The sharp sting of flesh hitting flesh rings into the night air, Nightwing's eyes widen behind his mask as he watches Dick's face reel to the side out of the sheer force of Tim's hand.

Batman closes his eyes.

Tim has slapped Dick.

Tim who never raised a hand against their children, their little wonders, has finally snapped.

"You have no right to assume," Tim says, his voice not rising from its usual whisper. "To imply your death meant nothing to us. That the fact that we lost you didn't break what we had, didn't destroy us."

"The clown is still alive!" Dick protests, his eyes wide.

"Because we swore to our dead that we would never sink to their level, not for anyone, not even for you," Tim replies evenly. "You swore the same oath to your dead, while you were nothing but a child holding onto our hands. Batman and I would have never forgiven you if you had avenged our own deaths in such a way. We honored the promise as we have honored everything else."

Feeling emboldened by Tim's words, Damian walks to Dick's other side, his hands releasing their hold of his own weapons.

"So much for family, you took a replacement," Dick hisses, shaking his head.

"We took a child in need of protection and stability," Damian replied, his own face slipping into his calm strictness. "You know what it's like."

"Whether you were alive or not, we would have taken Black with us nonetheless," Tim added, arms crossing over his chest.

"By some miracle you were brought back to us," Damian says.

"However we have to question whether this shell wearing your image is really the child we raised from infancy," Tim tilts his head, eyes narrowing. "Or really the little boy who would seek us out during the storms."

Outside the wind seems to pick up, the rain beating mercilessly against the broken glass.

Lightning strikes.

"If you are back to us, we will welcome you back with open arms and clear hearts," Damian promises, offering his hand.

"If not, we will continue to mourn the son we lost and forget this night ever happened," Tim hisses. "Because you are not acting like the son we loved and will not manipulate our minds into your selfish wishes."

Dick takes a step back as if stung by the words and his mind takes him back to the days of his youth, where Tim would always offer him open affection and advice and Damian would always be there to protect him from the invisible monsters. Where Tim, for all his smaller frame and pale skin, was the disciplinary figure while Damian usually let him and Jason get away with mostly anything as long as they did not leave a mess for Alfred to find.

Even now, years later, his parental figures are still waiting for him.

Another flash of lightning pierces the sky.

"Dude," Jason says weakly. "You know them, mom and pops, just tell them what you want, the truth."

Dick turns to Jason, the older brother he always dreamed of, his personal hero. The same teenager that held his hand whenever he was scared by the storm and delivered him gently into Tim's open arms, the same one who taught him not to fear Damian's intimidating growls. The one that helped him fly again.

"Jay…" Dick whispers, and finally looks at Batman's dark cowl and Nemesis' blue domino mask. "I want…"

Damian and Tim stare at him, silent in their judgment. Stinging with their disapproval.

"I want…" he continues, feeling all his strength leave him. "I want to go home."

A tear rolls down his cheek, followed by another, a thousand. He can't make himself care enough. His knees finally give out and he can only hold onto the black hem of Batman's cape with one hand while the other reaches for Nemesis' boot, his back heaving as he lets out the anguish, the pain and the shrieks of the Lazarus echoing in his head.

"I want to go home, dad," he cries. "I want it to be okay again. Please make it okay."

In seconds Tim is on his knees by his side, cradling his sobbing face against his chest, his fingers carding gently through his long hair.

"Then come home," Damian says, resting a hand on his shoulder. "The door never closed for you."

"Dad, mom," he whimpers, clinging to Tim's arms. "I don't want to be alone again… please."

"Silly circus monkey," Tim whispers, the ice melting from his voice for a second and matching the sweet lilt that Dick still hears in his dreams of the past. "Welcome home."

Dick instantly crumbles, sobbing the cold of his own grave and the stench of death of the League of Assassins, sobbing the despair of seeing Batman fly around Gotham with Black Bat and knowing himself replaced by another. He cries because he wanted it to be okay and didn't know how to fix the madness, the pain. Because all he wanted was to sink in the embrace of his childhood and never let them leave him again.

As he finally finds solace and safety, his body giving out on the exhaustion, he ignores how the police is there to drag The Joker away, how Damian is lifting Jason's heavy body effortlessly and Tim is staring at them with a small smile of pride.

His family is surrounding him.

He feels at peace.


	4. Son of the Bat

Most, if not all of the family's children, Damian had to admit, had appeared in their lives in unforeseen and impressive ways. From Jason's attempt to steal the Batmovile's rims and Dick's parent's unfortunate murder to Lady Shiva's battered form as she handed her daughter to Tim during battle.

So it wasn't such a surprise when Tim called Damian to his own home to find him sitting in the kitchen isle, sipping a cup of steaming coffee and staring at the ten year old child currently sleeping on his couch.

"Timothy?" he asked, frowning.

"Don't ask me," Tim said shrugging. "I woke up this morning and he was here. I thought you had sent him here."

"I wouldn't send you another kid," Damian scowled. "We have enough as it is."

Tin raised an eyebrow, knowing his lover didn't approve of his stray-picking tendencies – he would always huff and protest that the children stole Timothy's attention from him, but Tim knew he really was a big softy that loved all his sons and daughter madly – and would sometimes have to drag him away from Crime Alley in fear he would pick another kid.

"Then there is no logical explanation, is there?" Tim asked, far too calm for Damian's tastes.

"Tt," he snapped. "Beloved, you should upgrade your security."

"I did, remember? Right after I upgraded yours," Tim deadpanned, pouting. Damian sighed and kissed the pout away.

"A prank?" he asked.

"Jason is out of town and Steph is training the new Batgirl, remember? Barbara?"

Both men stared at the child, trying to determine his origin by his clothing or the dirt in his shoes. Failing and frustrated by such fact, Damian decided he might as well do the only intelligent thing he could.

With a snap of his wrist, he pulled the blankets covering the child away, his frown deepening when the boy became instantly awake and stood, brandishing a sword against them both.

A trained kid, then.

Unusual.

"Do not presume!" the child snapped, eyes narrowed. Tim and Damian blinked.

"What?" Batman asked, hands clenching.

"Who sent you," Tim asked at the same time, crossing his arms over his chest. He was sure Oracle must have picked the distress signal by now and must be monitoring this meeting. Jason and Cass would be on their way if the need arose.

Or if their children became too curious, which was more than possible, considering their past antics.

He sighed when the sound of boots echoed in his drive way.

Of course.

Damian couldn't believe his eyes as he read the report Stephanie handed him. His eyes turned grim as he regarded Tim's paling face, the way he seemed to sway and falter for a second before his hand was clutching Damian's tightly.

"He's your son," he whispered, biting his lips.

"And yours," Damian added, his hand tightening around Tim.

"It is kind of funny if you ask me," Stephanie's disembodied voice flared through the speakers, her purple mask bouncing around the screen. "A perfect clone of the two of you, the closest you will ever come to have children of your own?"

"We have children of our own!" Damian protested, frowning. "Three of them."

"Four, apparently," Steph corrected, her smugness clear despite the distorted voice.

"Cut it out, Steph, please," Tim begged, taking a seat. "How could this happen, I'm sure Luthor would have never let Ra's Al Ghul within inches of his technology."

"Why don't we ask the brat?" Damian scowled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I don't think he will be very forthcoming about his origins," Tim commented, his own arms coming around his chest. Damian worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches him. For some reason, his beloved seems to be in the brink of collapse.

He shook his head.

"Timothy," he said, placing both hands on Tim's shoulders to capture his attention before leaning in for a kiss. "I will come back in a few days, three at most."

Tim kissed him lightly, his lips trembling.

"Where are you going?" he asked, uncertain.

"I think I can pull in a favor from someone," Damian admited, pulling the cowl over his face and walking stiffly towards one of the bikes. "Someone with reliable information."

Tim blinked, and for a moment, he looked like the child caressing Damian's frozen cheek as it snows, like the lost little boy that didn't understand love and yet was so ready to give it.

Damian won't let Timothy suffer for this.

"Who?" Tim asked finally as Damian fastens a helmet over his head.

Damian started the engine.

"My mother," he said before driving away. He won't stand for any nonsense from his estranged family.

Talia wais, of course, as young as the day he last saw her, and he couldn't help but think that they no longer look like mother and son, that the differences between them were too great now, and that such differences would continue to grow with time. He idly wondered what would have become of him had he stayed by her side and decided he doesn't want to contemplate the alternatives. Not when he has a family waiting for him at Gotham.

Not when Timothy was waiting for him.

"Mother," he called, not surprised when she doesn't even flinch in his presence. His mother could always sense him, no matter his attempts at stealth.

"Damian," she greeted, taking a sip of her glass of wine. "I take it the boy finally reached you."

Chardonnay, Damian could tell from the color and scent.

Her favorite.

"Finally?" he asked, hands clenching. "What have you done, mother, what is the meaning of this."

"I had nothing to do with the child, son," she said simply, her slender shoulders shrugging elegantly. "This was all your grandfather's doing."

"Speak, mother," he demanded, approaching her reclining figure. She showed no fear and most likely feels no threat from him. She was immortal and he was not, there was no competition from him, no danger. He narrowed his eyes, pulling his cowl back. "What has grandfather done."

His mother raised and eyebrow, eyeing his face with noticeable interest before a cruel smile curls her ruby-red lips.

"It was all your beau's fault, my son, and his refusal to bend to father's little whims," she began, sipping her wine once more. "Of course your grandfather would set eyes on your little companion and his continuous rejections had worn on his patience, as you can imagine."

"So he cloned him?" Damian hissed, a snarl showing his teeth to his mother.

She shrugged again.

"If your young Mr. Drake would not share his incommensurable talents with The League, of course father would attempt to harness that prodigious intellect for himself in some other way," she explained, eyes piercing his.

"And cloning me?"

"Please, Damian," Talia sighed. "You do know you were your grandfather's first masterpiece, a child made to perfection. Of course your precious DNA combined with your lover's intelligence would make the perfect mixture of excellence your grandfather had sought so. You are, after all, an Al Ghul."

"I am Damian Wayne," Damian growled, his hand reaching for her and knocking the glass from her delicate hand, the sound of its crashing against the wall sending a thrill of satisfaction through his system as much as her surprised expression. "And what part do you play in this? We both know you are not the mothering type."

She glared at him for a moment, her lips pursing in distaste before smoothing into an expressionless mask.

"I did try to explain the same thing, but your grandfather insisted the child needed a mother," she said evenly. "However he did not take well when I informed him he had no mother."

"You did what?"

"I am not the child's mother, Damian, and I will not entertain his ridiculous fantasies," she informed him, eyes straying to the fireplace currently lighting the room. "The boy researched you both, your lives and all the data I had on me of the two of you, and then disappeared. I guessed he would approach your home."

Damian suddenly paled, his eyes wide.

"He didn't," he whispered, instantly turning to the window. "He infiltrated Drake Manor."

"Oh," Talia mocked, rolling her eyes. "How precious."

Damian jumped through the window and into his bike, the engine roaring into the night as he hurried back home. He just left a child assassin obsessed with the idea of his absent parents alone with Timothy and his children.

"Oracle!" he yelled into his comm. "Where's Nemesis?"

"Calm down, big guy!" the woman replied. "He's on patrol with Black Bat, Alfred is looking after your baby boy."

"Call Nightwing back to the manor, Stephanie," he said urgently, his eyes wide.

"What?" she asked, obvious concern in her mechanical voice.

"Do it!"

He arrived into the manor at the same time as he saw Tim dashing from the cave, Nemesis costume still on but mask off in the rush to get home. Cassandra was running behind him, her eyes wide. All three of them stared at eachother for a second before the clashing of metal against metal alerted them their worst fears have been confirmed.

Alfred was unconscious on the floor, a small bump on his head, Cassandra instantly knelt by his side, checking for further injuries, the dilatation of his pupils, his pulse, the color of his skin, the warmth of his body.

She nodded to them.

"He's just unconscious," she whispered, eyes saddened.

Tim nodded, eyes searching the shadows of the manor.

"Steph, where's Dick?" he asked, hands clenching and unclenching nervously.

"Garden, the demon brat is with him," Oracle replied instantly. "It looks bad."

It's bad, alright.

Bad enough that Dick flies through the window, eyes narrowed in homicidal rage, dragged a shotgun from the study's vault and jumped out again, a snarl curling his mouth.

Damian peered through the window, eyes wide as his unstable son started shooting at the demon brat – who in turn evaded each shot expertly – before ducking from getting stabbed with a hunting knife himself.

"STOP!" Tim snapped, eyes wide and Dick instantly turned to the sound of his voice, always obeying his mother figure. The child, on the other hand, snarled loudly before he plunged his knife on Dick's side, deepening it as much as he could on his opponent's skin.

"Dick!" Cass cried, her legs propelling her to kick the child away from her brother.

"You," Damian hissed immediately grabbing the boy by the neck. "You come to my house, try to kill my son. Is this why grandfather sent you?"

The boy struggled against his grip, eyes wide and terrified and his whole bravado lost against the force that was Batman's wrath. Tim was tending to Dick, calling out for Cass to help him take the injured young man to the cave and for Jason to hurry into the house.

"He didn't… send me…" the child whimpered, eyes watering. "I… ran away…"

"From the League of Assassins?" Damian snarled.

"Batman, stop!" Jason yelled, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the kid who fell limp into the ground. Damian's eyes were wide.

"Jason…" he whispered. "Richard is…"

"I know, Nemesis told me," Jason said, wrapping his arms around his father and hiding his face on the man's powerful shoulder. "It's going to be okay, you know that…"

Damian wanted to reassure his child that yes, everything would be okay, Timothy was skilled enough to help Richard and Cassandra would also assist them. The child his grandfather sent to play with their heads was skilled, yes, but not enough to actually threaten them and could be sent away soon.

No word made it past his lips however.

And Damian realized he was trembling.

When Stephanie announced that the kid has woken up, Damian tried not to flinch. He could still feel the fragile bones against his fingers, the way they bent against his strength. His hand that could have easily killed, broken the oath he swore to his parents, was now holding Dick's limp one as the young man rested, eyes swollen shut with bruises and lips cut crimson-red with their blood.

Tim placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Let's go, Damian, we need to face this," he said gently, his thumb caressing the man's skin.

Damian shook his head.

"Just put him on a plane back to grandfather," he said softly, unable to tear his eyes from Richard's calloused fingers.

"You know we can't do that…" Tim replied, eyes sad.

"We can," Damian snapped.

"Damian…"

"He ran away, dad," Richard whispered suddenly. "He says he's your legitimate son."

"Shh," Tim soothed. "Is that why you two fought?"

"He said…" Dick frowned lightly, still dizzy with painkillers most likely. "… that we had enjoyed hisparents long enough and that he wanted them back… that he deserved you two more than we did."

"And he decided to kill you when you wouldn't move.." Tim surmised, shaking his head.

"He's an animal," Damian hissed.

"He just like you when you arrived," Tim reminded him, eyes narrowed.

Damian narrowed his eyes, his teeth grinding into eachother.

"I don't know what you want from me, Timothy," he said, looking away. "Not this time."

"He reminds me of you," Timothy said simply, shaking his head. "Violent, mistrustful, alone."

"He tried to kill Richard," Damian argued, eyes wide.

"You tried to kill Alfred," Tim replied. "Just sit with him for five minutes, Beloved. That's all I'm asking. If you decide it is not worth the effort, I will personally drive him to the airport."

They locked eyes, Damian's full of ire and Tim's with calm resignation.

"You will sent him back to The League?"

"No, I will send him somewhere where he will be appreciated."

Damian rolled his eyes, standing. Timothy for all his cold calculations and inflexible will, was weak against the simple idea of a child being unwanted. Yes, Janet Drake had made a number on her child, and yes, Damian understood, and most of the time, tolerated such impulses, all three of them.

But this boy was crossing the line.

He stalked towards the holding room where the child was being held, nodding to Jason as he opened the door.

Cassandra was sitting by the boy's bedside, occasionally rubbing cream on the black and purple bruises on the child's neck.

Damian's handprint.

He shook his head when the boy's wide blue eyes met his.

The same blue, but the roundness of his eyes was all Tim.

"What is your name, boy?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

The child looked at him for a second, silence stretching into the room, before his eyes fell on his folded hands over his lap and his cheeks colored with shame.

"I don't have a name," he admitted, much to Damian's surprise. "I am the child, the boy, the clone. I don't have a name like you or your family do."

Damian stared into the embarrassed face for a moment before motioning for Cassandra to leave the room, silent in every way until he was sure she was gone and had dragged Jason with her.

"I thought grandfather would have given you one, considering the circumstances," he commented as he took Cass's vacated seat.

"Circumstances?" the boy asked, eyes wide.

"You are a perfect clone born from his perfect obsession," Damian commented, eyes straying to the window. "The family always had a weakness for the intelligent type."

"You mean The Master is in love with Mr. Drake?"

"Or so it looks to the family," Damian shrugged. "To outsiders it might look like a potential admiration of his intelligence."

The boy nodded, his frown thoughtful.

"It would explain a lot," he muttered. "I look more like you than I look like him. I guess it's the reason why he sent me to live with Miss Talia."

Damian sighed.

"Why did you come here, child," he asked. "You ran away, you could have hidden anywhere in the world. Why here?"

The boy shook his head, embarrassed.

"I never knew my mother or father, I thought I would if I behaved but then The Master sent me to live with Miss Talia and I thought maybe I was hers," he said and laughed mournfully. "She shot me down quite quickly, so I decided I should find out where I had come from."

Finally the boy pulled an old piece of paper from his pocket, folded and unfolded in so many places it felt to Damian like it might disintegrate in his hands.

A cut-out from a League's report.

A picture of them.

Tim and Damian were sitting in the garden, hand in hand. Jason was ruffling Cassandra's hair as she pouted lightly and Dick's head rested on Tim's lap, where the smaller man's fingers played with his hair.

A sudden burst of cold clenched his insides.

"I thought you weren't my parents because you couldn't be parents, but then I realized you had them," the child hissed. "Why them and not me? I am your own flesh and blood, I will always be more legitimate and… and…"

Damian stared at the picture, at the way the boy's hands trembled over his lap and his teeth sank into his bottom lip – just like Damian used to do when he was younger – the way his brows would furrow and his nose wrinkle – Tim's nose wrinkled like that when he tried to hold back tears – and realized this child, this lost little boy, had just travelled half of the world to see his parents, or the ones he thought were his parents, only to find a happy family that didn't include him.

He had lashed out in the only way he knew.

The way of the League.

He closed his eyes.

"You are named after your grandfather," he said finally, locking eyes with the ones almost mirroring his own.

The boy's eyes widened.

"Ra's?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"No," Damian said, handing the picture back to those little hands – how come he hadn't noticed how little they were? – and pointed to the painting on top of the room's chimney. "Those are you grandparents, the ones that took me in and taught me everything. You are named after my real father."

The boy's eyes traveled over their faces, their smiles, and then to the golden plaque at the bottom of the canvas.

**Thomas B. Wayne and Martha A. Wayne.**

"That means…" he whimpered, his eyes growing bright.

Damian nodded in defeat, later on he would blame this on Timothy and his mind games. He was sure his lover had planned this from the beginning.

"Welcome home, Bruce Jackson Wayne," he said softly.

Damian wouldn't move for the following hour or so, too busy holding the boy, his Bruce, as he cried his little heart out, holding onto his father's hands and muttering his thanks over and over. He knew it wasn't going to be easy. The child was a trained assassin and his morals left much to be desired – he would have to keep him away from Dick for a while – but they had managed with Cassandra and his parents had managed with him.

He could do it.

From the doorway, Tim smiled his little proud smile.

No.

They could do it.


End file.
